


Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High

by MoodyShade



Series: The Voicemail [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Between Season 3 and 4, Ficlet, Gallavich, Ian is absent, M/M, Mickey is pining, Sorry about any characterisation I've done wrong, this is my first gallavich fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2244678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoodyShade/pseuds/MoodyShade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drink, smoke, get high, shag a random redhead, walk around the South side aimlessly, sleep, repeat. Mickey's new life is a maddening cycle,now that Ian has left him. All he has left is the memory of Ian,and his voicemail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High

**Author's Note:**

> This is set between Season 3 and 4

Mickeys hands fumbles numbly at the flask, and he takes another long swig from it. His worn, moth-eaten jacket does little to shelter him from the chilly night. The vodka has yet to settle in his veins.

He finds it easy to drink on nights like these, when he can't help but picture a redhead walking beside him, saying they should go back home, smoke a joint, have sex while Mandy is still away for the night.

Sometimes, it's easier feeling the acrid burn of liquor down his throat than facing it all. The loneliness, the empty rooms, the pancakes that aren't being baked, the new fucking baby pram folded in the hallway.

A feeling of lightheadedness creeps behind Mickeys eyes, and he decides to put away the flask, and lights a cigarette. As he exhales the smoke, he has to keep himself from turning around, because no one's there, and no one is there to keep him warm with a quick wank in this dark alley he's just stopped in. For a second, Mickey is sure he catches a whiff of Ian's scent, and nearly hurts himself with how fast he snaps his neck upright. By then,it's gone,and all he smells is nicotine and vodka on himself. “Fucking bullshit,” he mumbles,and runs a hand over his brow.

He takes the flask out from his jacket pocket, and gulps down all that is left. The hangover is going to be terrible, but he doesn't care. This is mostly all that is left of Mickey Milkovich. Drink, smoke, get high, shag a random redhead, walk around the South side aimlessly, sleep, repeat. All because of stupid Ian fucking Gallagher.

The thought is maddening, and Mickey throws the flask to the ground, screaming “Fuck!”, and kicks it as hard as he can. If he thinks hard enough, he can picture it as Ian's stomach.

He immediately regrets it, and all the times he has kicked and punched Ian resurface. As if it was the day before, he remembers the redhead's gums bloodied, his elbows scraped on the ground, his hands clutching his chest. The words that brought Mickey to the edge come back as well.

_“You love me, and you're gay. Just admit it.”_

They ring clearly in Mickey's mind, and, like on many a lonely night, all he wants is to hear Ian's voice. He reaches into his trousers for his phone, and searches for Ian in his contacts. When he finds it, he presses the call button, and lifts the phone to his ear.

After the sixth tone, he hears, 'This is Ian Gallagher, please leave a message.' This is nearly enough to make Mickey cry in relief. Nearly. He merely lets out a sigh,and after the beep,croaks out,

“Ian. Listen man, I give up.Just fucking- Come back. I'll wait three more years.” He hangs up, his bottom lip trembling.

He knows he won't get an answer. He knows Ian won't even listen to that message. It's the fifth Mickey has left. This would normally be a major hit to his pride, but he senses he will soon be too drunk to care.


End file.
